


Tales From the Crypt

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: 2016 Scrapbook Halloween Challenge, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: Napoleon wakes up in a crypt, but his nightmare is just beginning. Where's Illya? The story is Gen, but can be read as pre-slash, depending on your POV.





	

 

  

The dream had been a strange one, no doubt about it. The jumble of images made little sense to Napoleon's sleep-muddled mind. A monkey in a silver collar, chattering as it ate a pomegranate. Equilateral triangles inscribed with algebraic equations. A man with a hyena's head standing over a fair-haired man, blood dripping from the dagger in his hand. A cloud of black birds descending to feed on a corpse.

_Sweet Jesus, the psych department would have a field day with that one._

He yawned, and opened his eyes.

For an instant, he feared he'd gone blind. He was enfolded in darkness – an ominous, ink-black night so absolute and impenetrable that it felt like a black hole had swallowed the world. He blinked several times and waited for his vision to clear, but the darkness was unrelenting, total. Napoleon forced himself to remain calm.

 _The last thing I remember is –?_ He thought back. _Flying into Cairo, filthy and smelling of camel dung. Checking into our hotel. The luxury of a long, cool shower. Drinks with Illya on the hotel terrace –_

He stopped as the realization hit him. _Where was Illya?_

He called out, but the sound that emerged was little more than a croak. His throat felt raw, damaged, as though he'd been screaming. He coughed up a gobful of spit and sand and tried again. “Illya!”

His voice echoed hollowly in the darkness.

It was hard to think. His brain felt fuzzy, unfocused, the way it got when he'd been without sleep for a prolonged period. _Drugs?_ He shook his head to clear it. Needles of pain shot up his neck; the world spun. Spots of light danced before his eyes, whirling brightly against the pitch-black night.

_Christ._

Napoleon forced himself to be still, to endure the pain, outlast it. As the discomfort mercifully receded, he rolled over, easing his body into to a sitting position.

 _No ropes, no shackles. Well, that was something, at least._ He reached out, allowing his senses to gather information.

 _Sand._ Mounds of it everywhere, infiltrating his trousers, his hair, his nose. _Somewhere in the desert?_   He spat out another mouthful of grit.

He could feel currents of air on his face, brushing his skin, shifting the terrain with a sound like hissing snakes. He cringed, thinking of all the creepy-crawly things that slithered about the desert at night. He could hear particles of sand tumbling down around him, striking the walls –

_Walls?_

He reached out, and encountered a structure directly to his left. There was another a little over three feet to his right. He traced the surface with his fingers. _Bricks_. They felt old, pitted and worn, the mortar missing in places _. Someone built this._ He found the evidence of civilization profoundly reassuring.

He stood, but only made it to a crouch before his head hit the ceiling with a loud – and totally unexpected – thump. Napoleon supressed a twinge of panic as the claustrophobic dimensions of the space became apparent.

He checked his pockets, hoping his captors had left behind something useful, but there was nothing – no communicator, no flashlight – not even a book of matches. He considered the options: move or die.

He moved.

The sand was cool under his fingers. He chose a direction and crawled forward, feeling his way blindly in the dark. Two feet later, he hit another wall. _Dead end_. He tried not to take the term literally.

He tried the second direction, with the same result; and the third. The fourth direction was open, and he took it. He groped his way in the darkness for what seemed like an eternity, calling Illya's name as he went. The passage twisted and turned, growing wider at certain points, and at others, narrowing so alarmingly that Napoleon feared he might get stuck trying to squeeze through. Sometimes it ran uphill and sometimes down. There was no discernible pattern to its construction.

 _So this is what a rat in a maze feels like_.

Another corner, another descent, and his eyes caught a brief flash of light in the distance. _The light at the end of the tunnel,_ he thought, and felt an absurd urge to laugh. He picked up his pace.

“Illya,” he called for the thousandth time. “Illya!”

“Here.”

Napoleon thought that he'd never heard such a beautiful sound in all his life. He scrambled gratefully toward the voice.

He rounded a sharp bend, and crawled through an arched portal that barely admitted the width of his shoulders. Light blazed, blinding him.

The chamber was narrow, made of the same pitted limestone as the walls. A sarcophagus dominated the center of the room; it was covered in gleaming gold leaf and inlaid with what appeared to be flakes of lapis lazuli. The walls and ceiling of the chamber were inscribed with dozens of brightly colored hieroglyphics.

Illya sat at the foot of the coffin, a Coleman lantern clutched to his chest. His left leg was wrapped in the bloodied sleeve of his cargo jacket. His eyes were unfocused, his face pinched with pain. “You're late.”

“Somebody stole my watch.” Napoleon sank to the floor beside his partner, resisting the urge to pull him into an embrace. “You okay?”

“Do I look 'okay?'”

“Well, except for the leg. Please tell me it isn't broken.”

“Twisted knee.”

Napoleon eyed the bloodied bandage. “A lot of blood for a sprained knee.”

“I scraped it rather badly tripping over the sarcophagus.”

“Are you sure it's only sprained? Maybe I should take a look at it.” Napoleon reached for the bandage.

Illya swatted his hand away. “Stop hovering.”

He withdrew the hand. “Fine. Have it your way.”

The shadow of a smile. “Sorry.” Illya rubbed absently at his temple.

“Headache?”

“A herd of stampeding camels trampling my cerebellum. Whatever drug they used on us, it was potent.”

“Yeah, I've got the Princeton University marching band tuning up in mine.” A pause. “How long do you think we were out?”

“There is no way to tell. The drug must have been administered while we were having drinks on the hotel terrace, but I cannot think how it was done. I watched the bartender the entire time.”

Napoleon recalled his strange dream. “Remember the trained monkey? It was capering around, climbing on people's shoulders, begging for coins –”

“That adorable creature drugged our drinks?!”

He grinned at Illya's scandalized expression. “Yep. I guess that makes us –”

“Do not say it.”

“– a monkey's UNCLE.”

Illya rolled his eyes.

“So, any idea where we are?”

“A Pharaoh's tomb, or so we are meant to think.”

“'Meant to think?' You mean, it's a fake?”

Illya nodded. “And not a very good one. The hieroglyphics on the walls identify it as the burial chamber of one Akmon Hotep I, a Sixth Dynasty ruler of Lower Egypt. However, history records no such Pharaoh, and the glyphs are freshly painted.”

“What about the sarcophagus?”

“Empty. Another cheap theatrical prop. It is made of plaster of Paris.”

“So, not a real tomb, but a mock-up, staged for our benefit?”

“It would seem so.”

Trapped in a cheesy mock-up of an Egyptian burial chamber – if their situation wasn't so grim, Napoleon might have found it funny. “I don't get it. Why bother with all this rigmarole? Why not simply kill us?”

“Perhaps they intend to toy with us first – the cat tormenting the mouse.”

Napoleon's headache ratcheted up another notch at the thought. “At least we've got the lantern - careless of our captors to have left it behind.”

“I do not think it was carelessness. I believe we were meant to find it.” Illya held the lantern up, illuminating a line of hieroglyphics, beginning with the image of a black bird perched inside a white oval. 

He sighed. “THRUSH. I should have known. Who else would go to this much trouble?”

"They do seem obsessed with us."

"Any idea which psychopath we've managed to piss off this time?”

Illya shrugged. “There have been so many.”

Napoleon squinted at the array of symbols. “Can you read it?”

“Some. It is a combination of hieroglyphic and hieratic script. Fortunately, my mission briefing included the fundamentals of both. This portion –” He pointed. “– warns of calamity to all who enter the tomb of Akmen Hotep I. 'Curse your bones unto Eternity.' The rest is mostly threats of torment, evisceration and dismemberment.”

“Cheerful stuff. Does it mention anything about a way out?”

Illya studied the symbols. “The hieratic portion appears to be a riddle of sorts. Decipher the text, and the answer points to the next clue.” He lifted the lantern toward the inscription. “'Raise yourself up, infidels. You have your'...uh, I believe the word is 'vertebrae'. 'Travel the path of Vengeance. Seek ye the Judgment of the Dead.'”

“Cryptic – no pun intended.” Napoleon pursed his lips thoughtfully. “'Raise up?' A hidden door?”

Illya's expression brightened. “Ah.”

Napoleon climbed onto the sarcophagus and examined the ceiling; it appeared to be smooth, a solid block of limestone, with no seams indicating a door of any kind.

“Try pressing there.” Illya pointed to a squarish symbol. “I think it means 'doorway.'”

He depressed the glyph, and they watched as a hidden panel in the ceiling slid open. “Looks like it's time to 'raise up our vertebrae.'” He swung through the opening, and reached down to pull Illya through.

The lantern's glow glistened off limestone walls. “Another passage.” Napoleon stood, stretching his cramped muscles. “At least this one's big enough to stand up in.”

The familiar image of a black bird was painted above the archway. “THRUSH's calling card again. Looks like we've found the next clue.” Beside it was the stylized drawing of a man, his arms spread wide.

Illya translated the brief message. “'I await you.'”

“That's all? Just 'I await you?'”

“There is no more. I suggest we move forward very carefully. The tombs of the Pharaohs were filled with booby traps. Presumably, THRUSH's version will be as well.”

“You're just full of good news, aren't you?”

The passage rose at a sharp angle, presenting the men with a new set of challenges. It was like climbing the face of a mammoth sand dune, their progress constantly thwarted by the slipping, shifting sand. Several times, Illya lost his footing and tumbled back down the face of the dune, pulling Napoleon along with him.

“Where's a camel when you need one?” the senior agent muttered, shaking the grit from his trousers.

Illya grunted something unintelligible in reply. His blue eyes were pinched with concentration, and a dot of blood marred the perfection of his lower lip where he had bitten it. Napoleon suspected that his partner's injury was more serious than he was letting on.

“We can rest, if you like?” he offered quietly.

Illya turned to face him, pale and grim. “The battery in this lantern will not last long. If we do not find a way out before it expires -” 

He sighed. "You've made your point. Here, lean on me.” After a brief hesitation, Illya settled his body into the crook of Napoleon's arm.

They stumbled on.

They had grown so used to climbing that they barely noticed when the passage leveled off. A wall of pictographs stood before them, with the THRUSH logo prominently displayed in their midst.

Illya pointed to what looked like a picture of a snake inside a croquet wicket. “This symbol seems to be the focal point of the inscription. The closest I can come to its meaning is 'deep place,' but I do not understand the reference.”

“Maybe the exit is buried under the sand.”

They began to dig.

“Anything?”

“No.” A hesitation. “Napoleon, perhaps this is not a wise – ”

Abruptly, the ground fell away beneath them. Illya tried to call out a warning, but too late – they were falling, sliding down a slick stone ramp into the darkness below. They landed with a thud, piled atop one another as the sand rained down upon their bruised bodies.

Napoleon groaned. “Nothing like a friendly game of Chutes and Ladders to pass the time. You okay?”

“I have...been better,” Illya replied shortly.

The chamber into which they had been dropped was filled with a collection of ornately inscribed clay jars, the largest, the size of a wine barrel. A black bird was carved into the seal of each vessel.

“Funerary jars,” Illya said, “to store the organs of the deceased for the journey to the afterlife.” He set to work on the seal of the nearest vessel. “Perhaps there is a clue inside one of them.”

“Careful. There's no telling what surprises our captors may have stashed in there.”

He peered cautiously over the rim. “Empty. No, wait.” He moved the lantern closer. “There is something at the bottom –” He reached down, and withdrew a tattered scrap of papyrus. “'Ye shall be anointed.'”

“Anointed? What the hell does that –?”

“Shh. Listen.”

A curious trickling sound had begun to emanate from deep inside the walls. It was accompanied by an odd gurgling that reminded Napoleon of the antiquated pipes in Illya's Greenwich Village apartment. “That sounds like –”

“Water.”

As they looked on in dismay, water began to spout forth from dozens of holes in the walls, each orifice the size of a silver dollar. “They're flooding the chamber!”

The men scrambled into action, Napoleon searching for an exit while Illya struggled to decipher the symbols written on the sides of the jars.

“Anything?” Illya called out.

“There's a panel of some kind near the base of this wall. I can see the outline, but there's no way to open it.”

“I may have something.”

Napoleon sloshed through the swiftly rising water to his side. “Show me.”

Illya pointed to a series of glyphs. “Every one of these jars has four symbols in common. The rectangle with wavy blue lines represents water.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“The second symbol is The Eye of Horus. It symbolizes protection, salvation. A way to save our lives.”

Napoleon glanced down at the water – already waist high and rising fast – and up at the ceiling, mentally calculating the amount of time they had left before the chamber was completely flooded. “And the third?”

“Tiet, the Blood of Isis. Tiet is placed inside the final symbol, the same square glyph we saw in the first chamber –”

“– representing a door. So what you're saying is –”

“A sacrifice of blood opens the door.”

Napoleon picked up the smallest jar and hurled it against the wall. It shattered with a deafening crash, the pieces raining down like hail onto the surface of the water. He seized the sharpest fragment, and sliced it across his palm. Blood dripped into the dark water.

He placed his palm against the panel.

A harsh grinding sound came from deep within the structure. Slowly, the lower section of wall retracted into its hidden pocket, revealing a narrow, lightless channel. A torrent of water rushed into the opening, inundating the space.

They waited for the chamber to drain, but water continued to pour from the dozens of spouts in the wall. The water level continued to rise. “Why isn't it stopping? We found the door!”

“Another test. Apparently, we are meant to swim out.” Illya began taking deep breaths, filling his lungs with oxygen.

“Swim? Through there? It's too narrow.”

“No other choice.”

Napoleon forced back a surge of panic, and nodded. “You go first – you're the better swimmer.”

Illya shook his head. “My injury will slow us down. You should –”

“It's not open for debate.” He held up a hand, forestalling further protest. “Don't worry, _tovarisch_. I'll be right behind you.”

With a final, anxious glance, Illya slipped beneath the rising water; his pale form was swallowed up in seconds. One more deep breath, and the senior agent followed his partner down into the murky darkness.

He swam forward blindly, pulling at the water with long, sure strokes. The way ahead was ink-black, terrifying. There was no way to tell how long the shaft was, or what lay at the end of it. _Was_ there an end to it?

He swam on, beating back the terror. Seconds dragged into minutes. His lungs burned with the need to breathe, muscles cramping as his body used up the last reserves of precious oxygen.

_I'm not going to make it._

Spots wavered before his eyes; his brain, too long deprived, began to shut down. He felt an overwhelming urge to inhale, to fill his starving lungs with –

_No! Hold on. Just a little bit longer, just a little –_

A hand seized him by the shoulders, dragging him from his watery tomb. Napoleon sucked in a long, wheezing breath and promptly fell over, coughing and retching into the sand.

_Alive!_

His muscles trembled uncontrollably, limbs spasming as oxygen forced its way back into his system. His senses were on overload, every cough an earthquake, every breath a searing agony. He rolled onto his back, dimly aware of the warm grittiness of the sand. Illya's frightened face loomed over him.

“H-how...l-long...?”

“Shh. Lie still. You were in the water nearly four minutes. I thought you were –” Illya's hands shook.

Napoleon glanced down at the dark well of water that had nearly become his tomb. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I guess those extra laps in the UNCLE pool are paying off.”

Illya relaxed fractionally. “Can you stand? We should keep moving.”

“Amen to that. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

They stumbled on. They had only gone a few paces when the temperature in the tunnel turned shockingly colder. Blasts of icy wind whistled down the passage, plastering their sodden clothes to their skin. Clouds of sand stung their cheeks like needles. To make matters worse, the lantern's light began to waver.

“Battery's dying.” Napoleon had to shout in order to be heard over the howling wind. “Ideas?”

“Move faster.”

A few hundred yards ahead, they came upon a junction where the passage forked.

“Which way?”

Illya studied the inscription over the lefthand passage. “The trilateral symbol and cross – heart and windpipe. There is a line drawn between the two parts – I would translate it as 'You shall be separated.”

“Maybe they mean to separate us,” Napoleon speculated. “What about the passage on the right? That symbol reminds me of the Pursang.”

“Air, or breath. The sail on a boat is propelled by the wind. Something I read once –” He fell silent.

“Which way?”

Illya shrugged. “I doubt it matters. THRUSH will have provided amusement for us in either passage.”

They chose the tunnel on the right. It was long and narrow, forcing them to go single file. Without Napoleon's arm to support him, Illya's breathing grew labored. He no longer bothered to hide the grunts of pain that came with each step.

The passage opened onto a vast chamber filled with several inches of fine, grey dust. The lintel over the entrance bore the familiar outline of a black bird.

“Well, this doesn't look too bad,” Napoleon said. He stepped forward.

“Wait.” Illya stared intently at the dust.

The seconds ticked by.

“Illya?”

“ _Bozhe moy!_ Don't breathe! Cover your nose and mouth!”

Napoleon pulled his shirt over his face. “Why? What is that stuff?”

“Hematite. It's a kind of metal powder. The Pharaohs used it in their pyramids, as a deterrent to discourage grave robbers.”

“What kind of deterrent, or shouldn't I ask?”

“The microscopic shards in the dust will shred your lungs if you breathe it in.”

Napoleon saw the flecks of grey metal swirling in the enclosed air of the tomb. He hastily backed away. “Inventive, these Egyptians. I vote for Door Number Two.”

They backtracked, shivering in their wet clothes, and took the second passage. Where the righthand tunnel had been freezing, the left one left one was broiling hot. It surrounded them in an oven of sulfurous, sizzling heat. The walls of the crypt burned to the touch.

“At least our clothes will be dry,” Napoleon said as they inched their way along the passage. He could feel the heat radiating up from the sand, searing the soles of his shoes.

Illya exhaled a ragged breath. “Computer controlled environments...our movements trigger the various obstacles and conditions.”

“Pretty elaborate, if you ask me.”

“And expensive. Whoever is behind this has considerable resources at their –”

“Illya, stop!”

He froze.

Napoleon raised the lantern, illuminating a nearly-invisible metallic grid directly ahead of them. “Razor wire. The trigger mechanism is buried in the sand by your right foot. See it?'

Illya looked down, and paled. “Another step and we would have been garotted. 'Separated.'”

Napoleon's heart hammered in his chest. Now that he looked, he could see dozens of the deadly mechanisms buried in the sand, awaiting their misstep. He sighed. With Illya injured and unsteady on his feet, the way ahead was impassable. “We'll have to find another route.”

Illya closed his eyes. His body trembled with fatigue. He looked utterly spent.

Napoleon searched the walls, the floor, the ceiling, looking for a hidden panels and mechanisms. “Nothing. Another dead end.”

“Perhaps there is No Exit. _'_ _L'enfer, c'est les autres.'_ ”

“Leave it to you to find a reason to quote Sartre.” The lantern dimmed again. “Dammit, we're running out of time! We must have missed a turn somewhere, but I don't see how. We followed the signs.”

“ _Chyort.”_ Illya's eyes flew open. “We followed the signs!”

“That's what I just –” Napoleon's eyes widened. “Oh, hell.”

“Our captors want us to fail. Therefore, anything that appears to help us –”

“ – is leading us into a trap!” He could have kicked himself. “All this time, we've been following the clues they created for us – thanks to the lantern they so conveniently left behind. We've been doing exactly what they wanted us to do.”

“Jumping through hoops for their amusement.” Illya scowled. “We are fools not to have seen it.”

“Fools, maybe, but the game isn't over, yet. Give me a minute to think.” Napoleon paced the confines of the tunnel, beyond angry now, picturing the thrashing he was going to give whichever maniac did this to them. “We've got to go back,” he said at last.

“Back?”

“To the well.”

“Napoleon –”

“We were so busy following THRUSH's trail of hieroglyphic bread crumbs, we never looked to see if there was another option. The well was the only place we _didn't_ see a THRUSH logo.”

“You think there could be another passage?” Illya's eyes lit with hope.

“Only one way to find out.”

They stumbled back down the tunnel, Illya clutching desperately to Napoleon's shoulder to keep from falling onto the scalding sand. The wind was in their faces, blowing them back, buffeting them with the force of a hurricane. Sand flew into their eyes, blinding them.

As they reached the well, Illya's legs buckled under him, and he fell to the ground, gasping for breath.

“Illya!”

“I may have...neglected to mention the cracked rib...”

The light wavered ominously.

 _Out of time._ Napoleon turned in a circle, studying the walls. Illya lay on his back, wheezing, white with pain.

 _There has to be a door. A button. A lever. Some sort of device, but where?_ He stared down into the dark water. _Could it be?_

He crouched down beside his partner. “I think the trigger mechanism may be somewhere under water. I'm going in to search for it.”

“Too...dangerous...” Illya gasped. “You...nearly drowned... ”

“No other choice.” He placed the failing lantern at the edge of the well, gave Illya what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and slipped beneath the roiling water.

He saw the mechanism at once, a disk the size of a car's steering wheel, embedded into the side of the shaft. They had missed it in the urgency of their previous swim. He rotated the wheel, praying it wasn't just another red herring, another trap. One rotation. Two. On the third rotation, he felt something snick into place. Above him, the lantern went out.

He surfaced, sucking in a grateful breath. “Illya?”

“Over...here...”

He climbed onto the ledge, and groped his way to his partner's side. “Anything?”

Illya placed the end of a rope ladder into his partner's hands. “Dropped...from ceiling...”

 _Another test, and without light to guide them, they were blind._ Napoleon tugged on the ladder. It held. “Piece of cake,” he remarked with a confidence he didn't feel.

In the darkness, he imagined Illya's smile.

He looped his belt through the waistband of Illya's trousers, and slipped his arm under his shoulders. “Ready?” He felt Illya nod. “Okay, here goes.”

The ladder swung and spun under their combined weight. The coarse rope scraped their hands until they bled. They climbed up into the darkness, Illya gasping in pain from the stress on his ribs.

“Hold on,” Napoleon said. “We're nearly there.” In truth, he had no idea how high they'd climbed, or how much farther they had to go.

Another rung. Another. The ladder rocked and spun. Without warning, Illya's feet slipped free of the rungs, tipping them sideways. Napoleon nearly lost his grip. He heard something snap in Illya's chest, and the Russian went limp in his arms.

"Illya!"

No answer.

Desperate now, he seized the rungs, one after the other, hauling their combined weight up into the darkness. His muscles trembled with the effort. _Climb,_ he ordered. _Climb._

His head struck the ceiling. Illya gasped and wheezed in his arms.

“Stay with me, Illya. We're almost there.” His fingers explored the ceiling, located a tiny button concealed in a limestone crevice. He pressed it, and listened as a panel slid open above his head. With a final, superhuman effort, he hauled the two of them through the opening. The panel swished closed behind them. Light blazed.

A room. Gunmetal gray walls. A conference table of Lebanese cedar. A bank of television live feeds shimmered above a computer console crammed with buttons and knobs.

Three men stared down at them; Napoleon recognized two of them. “Cutter? What the hell's going on?”

“Watch your tone, Solo. This isn't New York. You're not in charge here.”

“Then get whoever _is_ in charge. Illya's injured. He needs a doctor.”

Cutter turned to one of the computer technicians manning the bank of cameras. “Notify Medical, now.”

“Yes, sir!” The pale-faced technician hurried to obey.

“Cutter?” Illya roused himself, squinted up at the blurry form. “ _Jules_ Cutter?”

“A little slow on the uptake, aren't you, Kuryakin? You must be losing your edge.”

“ _Po' shyol...na' hui!”_

Cutter ignored the vulgarity.

“Good to see you, Illya,” Harry Beldon boomed. “How've you been?”

Illya stared at his former mentor in shock.

“Don't look so surprised, dear boy. I told you I'd be following your career very closely.”

Cutter circled the two agents, restless, prowling. “You're getting sloppy, Solo. You nearly walked into a room full of hematite. I trained you better than that –”

The lab door whooshed open, admitting a team of emergency medical personnel. They hurried to Illya's side and began the process of transferring him to a portable gurney. “BP 200 over 110, dropping rapidly. Patient is tachycardic, hypotensive, cyanotic. Starting supplemental oxygen.”

Napoleon watched them with worried eyes. 

“Don't worry, sir,” said one of the technicians as they wheeled Illya toward the exit. “We'll take good care of your partner.” The doors whooshed closed behind them.

The third man in the room was a stranger, a stiff-looking prig with a hint of cruelty lingering about the mouth. “And who the hell are you?” Napoleon snapped.

“Gerald Strothers.” He said it with such self-importance that Napoleon half-expected the guy to extend his ring hand for him to kiss. “Head of Security, Cairo Office. I designed the experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“You mean you haven't figured it out yet?" He tsk-tsked. "And Cutter told me you were intelligent.”

Napoleon's jaw set. “Maybe you'd better explain it to me.”

“Certainly.” Strothers drew himself up, chest puffed with pride, as though preparing to impart the secrets of the Holy Grail to an unusually dimwitted student. “The test is designed to measure the effects of a variety of stressful conditions on Section Two agents. Heat, cold, water and height triggers are tested, as well as the ability to employ critical thinking under duress.”

 _What a pompous ass._ “Why all the red herrings? The Egyptian tomb, the THRUSH logos?”

“For the experiment to work, you and Kuryakin had to believe that THRUSH had captured you.”

 _Definitely an ass._  "And the booby traps – the razor wire, the hematite, the flooded crypt –?”

"All quite genuine, I assure you."

"Wait a minute. You're telling me that there was a possibility Illya and I could have died in there?"

“I estimated a ten percent chance of permanent injury to one or both of you. An acceptable risk, all things considered.”

Napoleon imagined that smug, self-satisfied face with his fist planted in the middle of it.

Strothers went on, oblivious to the reaction he was causing. “Of course, the version you experienced is merely a prototype. The final version –”

“'Final version?! You're telling me you plan to do this to _other_ agents?!”

He seemed puzzled by the question. “Naturally. The spirit of scientific inquiry demands –”

“Are you insane? I nearly drowned, and my partner has broken ribs!”

Cutter waved his hand for silence. “Quit whining, Solo. You men went through worse than this in Survival School.”

“Under controlled conditions. For training purposes. This was –”

“– an experiment, designed by Strothers here to mimic actual conditions in the field."

"On whose authority?"

"The test was sanctioned by Mr. Beldon.”

"Beldon? What's _he_ got to do with anything? Illya and I work out of the New York office -” Napoleon's eyes narrowed. “Mr. Waverly doesn't know anything about this, does he?”

“Section One prerogative, Mr. Solo," Beldon replied, oozing unctuous good cheer. “Rank hath its privileges. Strothers approached me with his proposal, and I agreed to sponsor the research.”

“We've done nothing wrong,” Strothers insisted. “As Chief of Security here in Cairo, I have a perfect right to –”

“– to secure the safety of the Cairo office," Napoleon snapped. "Not to inflict your half-baked pseudo-psychology on unwitting test subjects. Do you even have a PhD?”

Silence.

“I'll take that as a 'no.'” The senior agent shook with anger. “My partner has broken ribs, and maybe a punctured lung. He'll be out of commission for weeks, if not months. I don't think Mr. Waverly will be too pleased to have a valuable agent sidelined on your watch. Do you?”

Strothers looked as though he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. His lips compressed into a narrow, bitter line.

Napoleon swung on Cutter. “As for you –” He hauled back and threw a punch that landed with a loud crack, sending the Survival School director reeling across the room. “Sloppy, Cutter. You should have seen that one coming.”

Blood poured from the man's broken nose. “I'll have you brought up on charges, Solo!”

“And admit that I caught you off-guard? I doubt it.”

Harry Beldon observed the altercation with undisguised amusement. “Quite a serviceable right hook, Mr. Solo. Are you going to punch me, too?”

Napoleon's smile was chilling. “And spoil Mr. Waverly's fun when he finds out what you've done? Wouldn't dream of it.” He strode toward the door. “I'll be in Medical, with my partner, and you'd damned well better hope he survives the surgery. Oh, and I'll be filing formal charges against the three of you when I get back to New York. This 'experiment' of yours is finished.”

Strothers' fists clenched in anger. “You can't do that!” he snarled.

“Watch me.”

The door hissed shut behind him.

*/*/*/

**Epilogue**

Napoleon sipped his coffee – Waverly's special Kenyan brew – and watched the morning sun rise over the East River. It was a clear day – he could see past the sleek façade of the United Nations tower to Roosevelt Island, where the cherry blossoms were just beginning to bloom. The tide was in, and a flock of seagulls had gathered, dipping and diving among the waves in an intricate aerial choreography. He sighed. It was good to be home.

Alexander Waverly scanned the final page of Napoleon's report on the Cairo Incident. His bushy eyebrows furrowed, an unmistakable sign of his displeasure. He made a notation in the upper right hand corner, signed the document with a flourish, and closed the folder.

“How's Mr. Kuryakin coming along?” he inquired mildly. Napoleon marveled once again at the old gentleman's ability to switch gears seemingly at will.

“Making good progress, sir. Dr. Rousseau thinks he can be cleared for light duty in another week or two – assuming he continues to cooperate with his physical therapist.”

“Hmm, yes. See that he does.” Waverly reached for his pipe, an antique Meerschaum given to him by the Queen of Belgium. He twirled the pipe in his hands, studying the intricate carving on the bowl –a lion rampant – as though it held the key to achieving world peace. “Regrettable, that unpleasant business in Cairo.”

“'Regrettable' doesn't begin to cover it, sir. Illya nearly died.”

“Indeed, Mr. Solo. I've read your report.” Waverly took an experimental chuff on his pipe; he seemed surprised to find it unlit. “What the devil was Beldon thinking? Volunteering two of my best agents for an assignment like that – and without even the courtesy of a phone call to inform me? Damned irresponsible of the man! Good agents don't grow on trees, you know.”

“No, sir.”

“I'd expect a rash decision or two from Jules Cutter – the man is far too impulsive for his own good. Bit of a frustrated pugilist, if you ask me. But Harry Beldon – now that's another kettle of fish –”

As Napoleon watched, Waverly replaced the Meerschaum pipe in its embossed case without ever lighting it. He retrieved the Cairo incident folder from the pile on his desk. Opened it. Re-read several pages. Made another notation in the margin. His expression grew distant.

“Something bothering you, sir?”

"Hmm?" Waverly glanced up. "Oh. I was thinking about Gerald Strothers.”

 _The man responsible for Illya's pain._ “I heard he was reassigned after his superiors got wind of his experiment.”

“Quite so. Abu bar Salaam was none too pleased with Mr. Strothers' shockingly cavalier methods. A formal reprimand has been placed in his permanent file, and he has been relieved of his duties in Cairo.”

“Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

Waverly's brow furrowed. He stared out the window, fingers steepled before him. He gnawed thoughtfully on his lower lip.

“Sir?”

The seconds ticked by.

“I don't suppose you've heard the news –?” Waverly said at last.

“News?”

“Harry Beldon has appointed Gerald Strothers as his new Head of Security, Berlin.”

Napoleon was thunderstruck. “Confirmed?”

“I received formal notice of the appointment this morning. Spoiled a good cup of tea, I can tell you.”

“But it doesn't make any sense. I mean, why on earth –?”

“Why on earth, indeed, Mr. Solo.” A touch of steel had entered Waverly's voice. “Gerald Strothers is arrogant, entitled, and lacks even the most basic principles of moral decency. Why place him in such an important post?”

A prickle of unease worked its way down Napoleon's spine. “Maybe Mr. Beldon felt responsible for Strothers' fall from grace. He did approve the experiment, after all.”

“Nonsense.” Waverly waved the explanation away.. “If Beldon felt obliged to help the man, he could have found him work in UNCLE's Maintenance or Housekeeping Departments. Why Security?”

Napoleon thought it a very good question. “Would you like me to look into it further, sir?”

He waited while Waverly considered his answer. “No,” the old gentleman sighed at last. “I'm sure it's nothing. Go and see to Mr. Kuryakin. We're going to need him at his best.”

“Yes, sir.” Napoleon stood, smoothing the creases in his trousers. He felt vaguely unsettled, although he couldn't have said why. The door whooshed open at his approach.

Just before the door closed, he caught a glimpse of Alexander Waverly, staring out the window, deep in thought. Napoleon's report on the Cairo incident lay open upon the desk.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” the old gentleman muttered.

*/*/*/

 


End file.
